


Everything a Home Is Made Up Of

by romanticalgirl



Category: Country Music RPF, Drive-By Truckers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I got green, and I got blues</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything a Home Is Made Up Of

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to[](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/) **inlovewithnight** for beta-duty.
> 
> Originally posted 10-13-08

Patterson goes back to where he started. When all is said and done, and it all comes down, he ends up right here on Cooley’s doorstep. The kids are running and crawling and getting into mischief, just like their old man, and Patterson watches in the same way he sees audiences – a sea of faces with just a few things that stand out like the flash of the lights off glasses or mouths open and singing along. Nothing’s really real, even when the baby’s hanging onto his pant leg and trying to stand.

Mike comes outside with a beer for each of them and shoos the baby back into the house and her momma’s arms. They walk like they’ve got somewhere to go, even though they don’t yet. Patterson wonders if Mike’s wife resents these moments, because pretty soon Patterson will have Cooley all the time, all to himself. The thought doesn’t stay long, because he doesn’t want it to, and Patterson’s become an expert in self-denial. Cooley just ambles along, slowing his long stride to match Patterson’s shorter one, and they kick up dust and hope the ghosts lie still.

“Saw Shonna.” Mike tells him, his voice giving away nothing much at all, but Patterson’s known Cooley longer than anyone but his parents, pretty much, so he knows all the more that Cooley’s not saying. Patterson nods and wants to tell him it’s a bad idea, but he’s always tried not to be a hypocrite, so he can’t say much at all. After a moment, Mike glances over at him and offers him a knowing smile. “How’s the kid?”

“He’s not a kid,” Patterson tells him, his voice slightly petulant at being so obvious. “And he’s fine.” He finishes off his beer and wants to toss the bottle, throw it as hard as he can until it shatters. He’s never been the violent type, but sometimes lately it’s all he can do not to rant and rave and smash things. It doesn’t make sense, because the band feels right again now that Jason’s gone, or maybe that makes it make sense that Jason’s gone and Patterson didn’t really want that to be the answer.

Cooley nods and just keeps walking, back to the edge of the property and the outbuilding that houses his guitars and amps, where he bleeds his music from his fingers until it all goes together right. Patterson drops the bottle in the bucket reserved for them and then waits for Cooley to unlock the door.

Cooley slouches inside and sprawls in the ladder-back chair, picking up one of his guitars and tooling with it as Patterson hunkers down on an amp and frowns at the floor. “Shonna’s all right?”

“Not all right,” Cooley admits, “but getting there.”

“You’d think it wouldn’t be so damn hard.” He wants to add that everyone knows it’s for the best and it was the right thing for them all, for the band, but he thinks he’d just sound like he was trying to convince himself, and maybe he is, even if it’s the truth. “Why’s it so damn hard?” He looks up at Cooley, and Mike has put the guitar down and is leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees. Cooley’s eyes are dark and unreadable as always, but the hint of a smile on his lips tells Patterson enough.

“You know why.”

“No. I don’t. I don’t get why it’s so hard. The band is us, you and me. Always has been. We’ve had the others along for the ride, but it’s _us_ , right?”

“Patterson.” Mike shakes his head and rubs his chin, the hint of a beard darkening the skin between his fingers. “Yeah. It’s us. You and me. We’re…the heart of it.” He looks like he’s going to say more, but Cooley doesn’t give speeches, so he stops and drinks more of his beer. “But you let the kid in.”

Patterson doesn’t say anything, and Cooley doesn’t say anything else for a while. Eventually Cooley picks up another guitar and plays with it, picking out an ancient melody on the strings. There’s a break between the notes and Patterson’s surprised at how thick his voice sounds. “So I did it? This is all my fault?”

“Fuck, no, you drama queen.” Cooley sets the guitar down and comes over, squatting down in front of Patterson so he can look him in the eye. It’s disconcerting, having him that close without the music between them, because it’s been a long time since its happened. “You opened the door and Jason didn’t just play with us, he was part of us. So it hurts.”

“It doesn’t hurt you.” Cooley’s eyes shut down and Patterson knows he’s said the wrong thing, but he also knows he hasn’t exactly told a lie. “You don’t care that Jason’s gone.”

“You’re a fucking idiot, Hood.” Cooley stands and walks away from him, his back stiff and tight. “You know that?”

“No, but I’m not surprised.” He stands up as well and moves over to Cooley, hand on his back. “You didn’t like him.”

“I did like him.” Mike turns around and Patterson sees the cracks in the veneer that Cooley wears like a second skin, even in front of Patterson, who knows him better than anyone, even his wife. “And I am sorry he’s gone. He brought something, and I miss it, miss him. Do I think we’re better off now? Yeah. But that doesn’t mean something ain’t missing.”

Patterson nods and averts his eyes. “He’d like to know, I think. That you liked him.”

“Wouldn’t do any damn good, Patterson.” Cooley reaches out, touches the curve of Patterson’s jaw. Patterson closes his eyes, because Cooley doesn’t touch him like this, not anymore, not for a damn long time. “Make it worse, maybe.”

Patterson knows it’s the wrong thing to do, because it has been so long, and they’re both married, both have kids. It’s wrong because there’s no music in the background and they’re both running on emotions that are about love and loss and other people. But, like he said before, they’re the heart of it; they’re the band when everything else is said and done. If the rest of the world walked away – if the drums and guitar and keyboards and bass were silent, if the audiences stopped showing up – there’d still be Patterson and Cooley, Muscle Shoals and the Stroker Ace all mixed up together, two people and one at the same time. He wants to say something, because he’s the words most of the time, but Cooley doesn’t let him. He takes his words away, takes his breath away with long fingers in Patterson’s curly hair and firm lips warm against his, tasting like beer and home and music, always music with Cooley.

He doesn’t know how long they kiss, just that it seems like forever and his lips feel raw and swollen when they’re done, stubble burnt and red. Cooley’s eyes are more hooded than usual, dark and hot. Patterson holds his gaze, not used to this heat between them when it’s not charged with Jack Daniels and performance sweat, but a shed full of guitars isn’t much different than a cramped bus with too many people. He lets his hand slide down to Cooley’s dick, rubbing it through his jeans.

Cooley rumbles a groan that Patterson feels in his own groin. He feels like a fucking teenager again, trying to get Cooley’s pants undone like he’s in the back seat with Mary Lou Evans, fumbling with her goddamn tiny zipper in search of the mystical wonder he knows is hiding underneath. He’s come a long way from thinking pussy’s got all the answers, especially once he’s got Cooley’s dick, long and tapered and slightly curved, in his hand, stroking the length of it and getting used to the feel of it against his palm.

Patterson watches as Cooley’s eyes close for a moment, opening even hotter than before. Tightening his grip slightly, Patterson shifts closer to Cooley, sliding his thumb across the head of his cock. Cooley hisses and Patterson knows the rough feel of his fingers on the sensitive skin, callused fingers just rough enough to elicit that pain in the instant before the pleasure takes over. Mike sways slightly, leaning in toward Patterson as his hand keeps moving. Patterson’s breathing is rough, matching the rhythm of Mike’s own, providing the melody to the gasping song.

Cooley’s rarely unguarded, even with Patterson, but the shuddering exhale he gives as he comes brings all his walls down with it. Patterson keeps stroking until Cooley’s whole body is vibrating with tremors, and what little of what Mike’s saying that Patterson can actually make out sounds like stop. He removes his hand and rests his head against Cooley’s shoulder, sure that somewhere, sometime he used to know how to breathe.

Cooley’s hand is tangled in Patterson’s hair, fingers twisted in the dark curls. He tugs slightly and pulls Patterson’s head back, mouth hungry as it finds Patterson’s, tongue and teeth feasting on Patterson’s already wet, swollen lips. Patterson’s eyes are closed, lost to everything but the firm pressure of Cooley’s other hand, undoing Patterson’s jeans with deft fingers

“Shit,” Patterson groans hotly, his hand grabbing at Cooley’s arm, wrapping around the hard bicep and squeezing, fingers digging into Cooley’s skin. “Cooley. Shit.”

Mike’s mouth is bruising as he tightens his fist around Patterson’s shaft, the rough ball of his hand rubbing against the ridge of the sensitive head. Patterson groans again, the sound lost in Cooley’s mouth and his nails digging into Mike’s skin. Patterson thinks he whimpers as they break apart, the sensations overwhelming him as Cooley slides his thumb over the head, leaving a thick, sticky trail.

“Fuck, Cooley.” It’s a growl now, primal and desperate. Mike’s hand tightens further still, speed increasing until Patterson rises up on his toes, gasping as he comes. It’s a long while before he sinks back down onto his feet, longer still before he eases away from Mike, his breathing still shaky. “Fuck, Cooley.”

Mike laughs, the sound rough and deep. He shakes his head as he grabs a couple of rag and tosses one to Patterson. “Little late for that, Hood.”

Patterson laughs and cleans himself up, flipping Cooley off in the process. He does up his jeans and moves back to settle on the amp again. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Cooley leans against the wall, the late evening light glowing orange behind him. “It’s gonna be all right, you know. Us. The band. The kid. It’s all gonna be all right.”

“Because Mike Cooley has deemed it so?” Patterson drawls the words more than normal, smiling his crooked smile and probably looking like he woke up on the wrong side of a hot Alabama morning.

“Nah, Hood. Because it is. Because it always is.” Cooley shoves off the wall and heads for the door, holding his hand out to Patterson to help him to his feet. “C’mon. I’ll buy you a beer.”

“We’re going out somewhere?”

“Nope.” Mike smiles his sly Cooley smile and hooks an arm around Patterson’s shoulders. “But I’ll give you one from the fridge and won’t charge ya. How’s that sound?”

“That sounds pretty good, Cooley.” Patterson lets himself lean on Mike a little bit. “Sounds pretty damn good to me.”  



End file.
